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• 1 2016-11-13T12:51:23-08:00 Act I 24 Richard II Act 1 plain 2016-12-15T21:57:59-08:00 Scene 1
  Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles                                                          
  and Attendants.
   
  KING RICHARD
  Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster,                                                                        
  Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
  Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,
  Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal,
  Which then our leisure would not let us hear,                                        5
  Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?
  GAUNT  I have, my liege.
  KING RICHARD
  Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him
  If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice
  Or worthily, as a good subject should,                                                  10
  On some known ground of treachery in him?
  GAUNT
  As near as I could sift him on that argument,
  On some apparent danger seen in him
  Aimed at your Highness, no inveterate malice.
  KING RICHARD
  Then call them to our presence.                                                              15
  An Attendant exits.
  Face to face
  And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
  The accuser and the accusèd freely speak.
  High stomached are they both and full of ire,
  In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.                                                     20
   
  Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray.                                                                 
                                                                                                                        
  BOLINGBROKE
  Many years of happy days befall                                                                    
  My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege.                                                          
  MOWBRAY
  Each day still better other’s happiness
  Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,
  Add an immortal title to your crown.                                                    25               
  KING RICHARD
  We thank you both. Yet one but flatters us,
  As well appeareth by the cause you come:
  Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.
  Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object                                                                 
  Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?                              30                         
   HENRY BOLINGBROKE

  First, heaven be the record to my speech!                                                              
  In the devotion of a subject's love,
  Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
  And free from other misbegotten hate,
  Come I appellant to this princely presence.
  Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
  And mark my greeting well; for what I speak
  My body shall make good upon this earth,
  Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
  Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,
  Too good to be so and too bad to live,                                                     40                     
  Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
  The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
  Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
  With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
  And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,
  What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may prove.

   THOMAS MOWBRAY
  Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal :
  'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
  The bitter clamor of two evil tongues,
  Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain:
  The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this:                                    
  Yet can I not of such tame patience boast
  As to be hushed and naught at all to say.                                              55
  First, the fair reverence of your Highness curbs me
  From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,
  Which else would post until it had returned
  These terms of treason doubled down his throat.
  Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,                                                  60
  And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
  I do defy him, and I spit at him,
  Call him a slanderous coward and a villain,
  Which to maintain I would allow him odds
  And meet him, were I tied to run afoot                                                 65
  Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps
  Or any other ground inhabitable
  Wherever Englishman durst set his foot.
  Meantime let this defend my loyalty:
  By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.                                            70
  BOLINGBROKE, throwing down a gage
  Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
  Disclaiming here the kindred of the King,
  And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,
  Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.
  If guilty dread have left thee so much strength                                    75
  As to take up mine honor’s pawn, then stoop.
  By that and all the rites of knighthood else
  Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
  What I have spoke or thou canst worse devise.
  MOWBRAY, picking up the gage
  I take it up, and by that sword I swear                                                  80
  Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,
  I’ll answer thee in any fair degree
  Or chivalrous design of knightly trial;
  And when I mount, alive may I not light
  If I be traitor or unjustly fight.                                                                85
  KING RICHARD
  What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge?
  It must be great that can inherit us
  So much as of a thought of ill in him.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true:
  That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles                          90
  In name of lendings for your Highness’ soldiers,
  The which he hath detained for lewd employments,
  Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
  Besides I say, and will in battle prove,
  Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge                                            95
  That ever was surveyed by English eye,
  That all the treasons for these eighteen years
  Complotted and contrivèd in this land
  Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and
  spring.                                                                                                    100
  Further I say, and further will maintain
  Upon his bad life to make all this good,
  That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death,
  Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
  And consequently, like a traitor coward,                                            105
  Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of
  blood,
  Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries
  Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth
  To me for justice and rough chastisement.                                         110
  And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
  This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.
  KING RICHARD
  How high a pitch his resolution soars!—
  Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?
  MOWBRAY
  O, let my sovereign turn away his face                                               115
  And bid his ears a little while be deaf,
  Till I have told this slander of his blood
  How God and good men hate so foul a liar.
  KING RICHARD
  Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.
  Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir,                                  120
  As he is but my father’s brother’s son,
  Now by my scepter’s awe I make a vow:
  Such neighbor nearness to our sacred blood
  Should nothing privilege him nor partialize
  The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.                                    125
  He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou.
  Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.
  MOWBRAY
  Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
  Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.
  Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais                                         130
  Disbursed I duly to his Highness’ soldiers;
  The other part reserved I by consent,
  For that my sovereign liege was in my debt
  Upon remainder of a dear account
  Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.                                  135
  Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death,
  I slew him not, but to my own disgrace
  Neglected my sworn duty in that case.—
  For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
  The honorable father to my foe,                                                           140
  Once did I lay an ambush for your life,
  A trespass that doth vex my grievèd soul.
  But ere I last received the sacrament,
  I did confess it and exactly begged
  Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.—                                     145
  This is my fault. As for the rest appealed,
  It issues from the rancor of a villain,
  A recreant and most degenerate traitor,
  Which in myself I boldly will defend,
  And interchangeably hurl down my gage                                           150
  Upon this overweening traitor’s foot,
  He throws down a gage.
  To prove myself a loyal gentleman,
  Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom;
  In haste whereof most heartily I pray
  Your Highness to assign our trial day.                                                155
  Bolingbroke picks up the gage.
  KING RICHARD
  Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me.
  Let’s purge this choler without letting blood.
  This we prescribe, though no physician.
  Deep malice makes too deep incision.
  Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed.                                           160
  Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.—
  Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
  We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.
  GAUNT
  To be a make-peace shall become my age.—
  Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.                         165
  KING RICHARD
  And, Norfolk, throw down his.
  GAUNT  When, Harry, when?
  Obedience bids I should not bid again.
  KING RICHARD
  Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.
  MOWBRAY
  Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.                                    170
  Mowbray kneels.
  My life thou shalt command, but not my shame.
  The one my duty owes, but my fair name,
  Despite of death that lives upon my grave,
  To dark dishonor’s use thou shalt not have.
  I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here,                                   175
  Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear,
  The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood
  Which breathed this poison.
  KING RICHARD  Rage must be withstood.
  Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame.                                  180
  MOWBRAY, standing
  Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame
  And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,
  The purest treasure mortal times afford
  Is spotless reputation; that away,
  Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.                                           185
  A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest
  Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
  Mine honor is my life; both grow in one.
  Take honor from me and my life is done.
  Then, dear my liege, mine honor let me try.                                      190
  In that I live, and for that will I die.
  KING RICHARD, to Bolingbroke
  Cousin, throw up your gage. Do you begin.
  BOLINGBROKE
  O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!
  Shall I seem crestfallen in my father’s sight?
  Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height                                    195                          
  Before this out-dared dastard? Ere my tongue
  Shall wound my honor with such feeble wrong
  Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
  The slavish motive of recanting fear
  And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,                                           200
  Where shame doth harbor, even in Mowbray’s face.
  KING RICHARD
  We were not born to sue, but to command,
  Which, since we cannot do, to make you friends,
  Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
  At Coventry upon Saint Lambert’s day.                                             205
  There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
  The swelling difference of your settled hate.
  Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
  Justice design the victor’s chivalry.—
  Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms                                   210
  Be ready to direct these home alarms.
  They exit.
   
  Scene 2
  Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of Gloucester.                                                
   
  GAUNT
  Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood
  Doth more solicit me than your exclaims
  To stir against the butchers of his life.
  But since correction lieth in those hands
  Which made the fault that we cannot correct,                                        5
  Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven,
  Who, when they see the hours ripe on Earth,
  Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.
  DUCHESS
  Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
  Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?                                            10
  Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
  Were as seven vials of his sacred blood
  Or seven fair branches springing from one root.
  Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course,
  Some of those branches by the Destinies cut.                                      15
  But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
  One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood,
  One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
  Is cracked and all the precious liquor spilt,
  Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded,                             20
  By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody ax.
  Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that
  womb,
  That metal, that self mold that fashioned thee
  Made him a man; and though thou livest and                                      25
  breathest,
  Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
  In some large measure to thy father’s death
  In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
  Who was the model of thy father’s life.                                                30
  Call it not patience, Gaunt. It is despair.
  In suff’ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered,
  Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
  Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
  That which in mean men we entitle patience                                       35
  Is pale, cold cowardice in noble breasts.
  What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life,
  The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death.
  GAUNT
  God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute,
  His deputy anointed in His sight,                                                           40
  Hath caused his death, the which if wrongfully
  Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift
  An angry arm against His minister.
  DUCHESS
  Where, then, alas, may I complain myself?
  GAUNT
  To God, the widow’s champion and defense.                                      45
  DUCHESS
  Why then I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
  Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
  Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
  O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear,
  That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast!                                      50                    
  Or if misfortune miss the first career,
  Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom
  That they may break his foaming courser’s back
  And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
  A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!                                            55
  Farewell, old Gaunt. Thy sometime brother’s wife
  With her companion, grief, must end her life.
  GAUNT
  Sister, farewell. I must to Coventry.
  As much good stay with thee as go with me.
  DUCHESS
  Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,                            60
  Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.
  I take my leave before I have begun,
  For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
  Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.
  Lo, this is all. Nay, yet depart not so!                                                    65
  Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
  I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what?—
  With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
  Alack, and what shall good old York there see
  But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls,                                         70
  Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
  And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
  Therefore commend me; let him not come there
  To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere.
  Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die.                                               75
  The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.
  They exit.
   
  Scene 3
  Enter Lord Marshal and the Duke of Aumerle.
   
  MARSHAL
  My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?
  AUMERLE
  Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
  MARSHAL
  The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
  Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.
  AUMERLE
  Why then, the champions are prepared and stay                                   5
  For nothing but his Majesty’s approach.
   
  The trumpets sound and the King enters with his Nobles
  and Officers; when they are set, enter Mowbray, the
  Duke of Norfolk in arms, defendant, with a Herald.
   
  KING RICHARD
  Marshal, demand of yonder champion
  The cause of his arrival here in arms,
  Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
  To swear him in the justice of his cause.                                              10                       
  MARSHAL, to Mowbray
  In God’s name and the King’s, say who thou art
  And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms,
  Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel.
  Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath,
  As so defend thee heaven and thy valor.                                              15
  MOWBRAY
  My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
  Who hither come engagèd by my oath—
  Which God defend a knight should violate!—
  Both to defend my loyalty and truth
  To God, my king, and my succeeding issue,                                        20
  Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me,
  And by the grace of God and this mine arm
  To prove him, in defending of myself,
  A traitor to my God, my king, and me;
  And as I truly fight, defend me heaven.                                                25
   
  The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, Duke of
  Hereford, appellant, in armor, with a Herald.
   
  KING RICHARD  Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms
  Both who he is and why he cometh hither
  Thus plated in habiliments of war,
  And formally, according to our law,
  Depose him in the justice of his cause.                                                 30
  MARSHAL, to Bolingbroke
  What is thy name? And wherefore com’st thou hither,
  Before King Richard in his royal lists?
  Against whom comest thou? And what’s thy quarrel?
  Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby                                             35
  Am I, who ready here do stand in arms
  To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valor,
  In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
  That he is a traitor foul and dangerous
  To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me.                                      40
  And as I truly fight, defend me heaven.
  MARSHAL
  On pain of death, no person be so bold
  Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
  Except the Marshal and such officers
  Appointed to direct these fair designs.                                                  45
  BOLINGBROKE
  Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand
  And bow my knee before his Majesty;
  For Mowbray and myself are like two men
  That vow a long and weary pilgrimage.
  Then let us take a ceremonious leave                                                    50
  And loving farewell of our several friends.
  MARSHAL, to King Richard
  The appellant in all duty greets your Highness
  And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.
  KING RICHARD, coming down
  We will descend and fold him in our arms.
  He embraces Bolingbroke.
  Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,                                             55
  So be thy fortune in this royal fight.
  Farewell, my blood—which, if today thou shed,
  Lament we may but not revenge thee dead.
  BOLINGBROKE
  O, let no noble eye profane a tear
  For me if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear.                                        60
  As confident as is the falcon’s flight
  Against a bird do I with Mowbray fight.
  My loving lord, I take my leave of you.—
  Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
  Not sick, although I have to do with death,                                          65
  But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.—
  Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
  The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
  O, thou the earthly author of my blood,
  Whose youthful spirit in me regenerate                                                70
  Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up
  To reach at victory above my head,
  Add proof unto mine armor with thy prayers,
  And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point
  That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat                                            75
  And furbish new the name of John o’ Gaunt,
  Even in the lusty havior of his son.
  GAUNT
  God in thy good cause make thee prosperous.
  Be swift like lightning in the execution,
  And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,                                                   80
  Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
  Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
  Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!
  MOWBRAY
  However God or fortune cast my lot,                                                    85
  There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,
  A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
  Never did captive with a freer heart
  Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace
  His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement                                            90
  More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
  This feast of battle with mine adversary.
  Most mighty liege and my companion peers,
  Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
  As gentle and as jocund as to jest                                                          95
  Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.
  KING RICHARD
  Farewell, my lord. Securely I espy
  Virtue with valor couchèd in thine eye.—
  Order the trial, marshal, and begin.
  MARSHAL
  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,                                         100
  Receive thy lance; and God defend the right.
  He presents a lance to Bolingbroke.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Strong as a tower in hope, I cry “Amen!”
  MARSHAL, to an Officer
  Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.
  An Officer presents a lance to Mowbray.
  FIRST HERALD
  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby
  Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,                              105
  On pain to be found false and recreant,
  To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
  A traitor to his God, his king, and him,
  And dares him to set forward to the fight.
  SECOND HERALD
  Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,                        110
  On pain to be found false and recreant,
  Both to defend himself and to approve
  Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby
  To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal,
  Courageously and with a free desire                                                   115
  Attending but the signal to begin.
  MARSHAL
  Sound, trumpets, and set forward, combatants.
  Trumpets sound. Richard throws down his warder.
  Stay! The King hath thrown his warder down.
  KING RICHARD
  Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
  And both return back to their chairs again.                                        120
  To his council. Withdraw with us, and let the
  trumpets sound
  While we return these dukes what we decree.
  Trumpets sound while Richard consults with Gaunt
  and other Nobles.
  To Bolingbroke and Mowbray. Draw near,
  And list what with our council we have done.                                  125
  For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soiled
  With that dear blood which it hath fosterèd;
  And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
  Of civil wounds plowed up with neighbor’s sword;
  And for we think the eagle-wingèd pride                                           130
  Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
  With rival-hating envy, set on you
  To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle
  Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep,
  Which, so roused up with boist’rous untuned                                   135
  drums,
  With harsh resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,
  And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
  Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace
  And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood:                              140
  Therefore we banish you our territories.
  You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
  Till twice five summers have enriched our fields
  Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
  But tread the stranger paths of banishment.                                       145
  BOLINGBROKE
  Your will be done. This must my comfort be:
  That sun that warms you here shall shine on me,
  And those his golden beams to you here lent
  Shall point on me and gild my banishment.
  KING RICHARD
  Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,                                        150
  Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
  The sly, slow hours shall not determinate
  The dateless limit of thy dear exile.
  The hopeless word of “never to return”
  Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.                                            155
  MOWBRAY
  A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
  And all unlooked-for from your Highness’ mouth.
  A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
  As to be cast forth in the common air,
  Have I deservèd at your Highness’ hands.                                         160
  The language I have learnt these forty years,
  My native English, now I must forgo;
  And now my tongue’s use is to me no more
  Than an unstringèd viol or a harp,
  Or like a cunning instrument cased up,                                              165
  Or, being open, put into his hands
  That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
  Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue,
  Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips,
  And dull unfeeling barren ignorance                                                   170
  Is made my jailor to attend on me.
  I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
  Too far in years to be a pupil now.
  What is thy sentence then but speechless death,
  Which robs my tongue from breathing native                                   175
  breath?
  KING RICHARD
  It boots thee not to be compassionate.
  After our sentence plaining comes too late.
  MOWBRAY
  Then thus I turn me from my country’s light,
  To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.                                     180
  He begins to exit.
  KING RICHARD
  Return again, and take an oath with thee.
  To Mowbray and Bolingbroke. Lay on our royal
  sword your banished hands.
  They place their right hands on the hilts of
  Richard’s sword.
  Swear by the duty that you owe to God—
  Our part therein we banish with yourselves—                                  185
  To keep the oath that we administer:
  You never shall, so help you truth and God,
  Embrace each other’s love in banishment,
  Nor never look upon each other’s face,
  Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile                                               190
  This louring tempest of your homebred hate,
  Nor never by advisèd purpose meet
  To plot, contrive, or complot any ill
  ’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
  BOLINGBROKE  I swear.                                                                        195
  MOWBRAY  And I, to keep all this.
  They step back.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:
  By this time, had the King permitted us,
  One of our souls had wandered in the air,
  Banished this frail sepulcher of our flesh,                                          200
  As now our flesh is banished from this land.
  Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm.
  Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
  The clogging burden of a guilty soul.
  MOWBRAY
  No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,                                              205
  My name be blotted from the book of life,
  And I from heaven banished as from hence.
  But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know,
  And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.—
  Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;                                    210
  Save back to England, all the world’s my way.
  He exits.
  KING RICHARD, to Gaunt
  Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
  I see thy grievèd heart. Thy sad aspect
  Hath from the number of his banished years
  Plucked four away. To Bolingbroke. Six frozen                               215
  winters spent,
  Return with welcome home from banishment.
  BOLINGBROKE
  How long a time lies in one little word!
  Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
  End in a word; such is the breath of kings.                                        220
  GAUNT
  I thank my liege that in regard of me
  He shortens four years of my son’s exile.
  But little vantage shall I reap thereby;
  For, ere the six years that he hath to spend
  Can change their moons and bring their times                                  225
  about,
  My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
  Shall be extinct with age and endless night;
  My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
  And blindfold death not let me see my son.                                       230
  KING RICHARD
  Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.
  GAUNT
  But not a minute, king, that thou canst give.
  Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
  And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow.
  Thou canst help time to furrow me with age,                                    235
  But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
  Thy word is current with him for my death,
  But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
  KING RICHARD
  Thy son is banished upon good advice,
  Whereto thy tongue a party verdict gave.                                           240
  Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour?
  GAUNT
  Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
  You urged me as a judge, but I had rather
  You would have bid me argue like a father.
  O, had it been a stranger, not my child,                                              245
  To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.
  A partial slander sought I to avoid,
  And in the sentence my own life destroyed.
  Alas, I looked when some of you should say
  I was too strict, to make mine own away.                                          250
  But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue
  Against my will to do myself this wrong.
  KING RICHARD, to Bolingbroke
  Cousin, farewell.—And, uncle, bid him so.
  Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
  Flourish. King Richard exits with his Attendants.
  AUMERLE, to Bolingbroke
  Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know,                             255
  From where you do remain let paper show.
  MARSHAL, to Bolingbroke
  My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride,
  As far as land will let me, by your side.
  GAUNT, to Bolingbroke
  O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
  That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?                                 260
  BOLINGBROKE
  I have too few to take my leave of you,
  When the tongue’s office should be prodigal
  To breathe the abundant dolor of the heart.
  GAUNT
  Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Joy absent, grief is present for that time.                                            265
  GAUNT
  What is six winters? They are quickly gone.
  BOLINGBROKE
  To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.
  GAUNT
  Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.
  BOLINGBROKE
  My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
  Which finds it an enforcèd pilgrimage.                                              270
  GAUNT
  The sullen passage of thy weary steps
  Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set
  The precious jewel of thy home return.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Nay, rather every tedious stride I make
  Will but remember me what a deal of world                                     275
  I wander from the jewels that I love.
  Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
  To foreign passages, and in the end,
  Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
  But that I was a journeyman to grief?                                                 280
  GAUNT
  All places that the eye of heaven visits
  Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
  Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
  There is no virtue like necessity.
  Think not the King did banish thee,                                                    285
  But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit
  Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
  Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honor,
  And not the King exiled thee; or suppose
  Devouring pestilence hangs in our air                                                290
  And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
  Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
  To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com’st.
  Suppose the singing birds musicians,
  The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence                                   295
  strewed,
  The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
  Than a delightful measure or a dance;
  For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
  The man that mocks at it and sets it light.                                          300
  BOLINGBROKE
  O, who can hold a fire in his hand
  By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
  Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
  By bare imagination of a feast?
  Or wallow naked in December snow                                                  305
  By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat?
  O no, the apprehension of the good
  Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
  Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more
  Than when he bites but lanceth not the sore.                                     310
  GAUNT
  Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way.
  Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.
  BOLINGBROKE
  Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu,
  My mother and my nurse that bears me yet.
  Where’er I wander, boast of this I can,                                               315
  Though banished, yet a trueborn Englishman.
  They exit.
   
  Scene 4
  Enter the King with Green and Bagot, at one door,
  and the Lord Aumerle at another.
   
  KING RICHARD  We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle,
  How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
  AUMERLE
  I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
  But to the next highway, and there I left him.
  KING RICHARD
  And say, what store of parting tears were shed?                                    5
  AUMERLE
  Faith, none for me, except the northeast wind,
  Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
  Awaked the sleeping rheum and so by chance
  Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
  KING RICHARD
  What said our cousin when you parted with him?                              10
  AUMERLE  “Farewell.”
  And, for my heart disdainèd that my tongue
  Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
  To counterfeit oppression of such grief
  That words seemed buried in my sorrow’s grave.                              15
  Marry, would the word “farewell” have lengthened
  hours
  And added years to his short banishment,
  He should have had a volume of farewells.
  But since it would not, he had none of me.                                          20
  KING RICHARD
  He is our cousin, cousin, but ’tis doubt,
  When time shall call him home from banishment,
  Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
  Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green,
  Observed his courtship to the common people,                                   25
  How he did seem to dive into their hearts
  With humble and familiar courtesy,
  What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
  Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles
  And patient underbearing of his fortune,                                              30
  As ’twere to banish their affects with him.
  Off goes his bonnet to an oysterwench;
  A brace of draymen bid God speed him well
  And had the tribute of his supple knee,
  With “Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends,”                         35
  As were our England in reversion his
  And he our subjects’ next degree in hope.
  GREEN
  Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.
  Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland,
  Expedient manage must be made, my liege,                                        40
  Ere further leisure yield them further means
  For their advantage and your Highness’ loss.
  KING RICHARD
  We will ourself in person to this war.
  And, for our coffers, with too great a court
  And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,                                  45
  We are enforced to farm our royal realm,
  The revenue whereof shall furnish us
  For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
  Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters,
  Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,                           50
  They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold
  And send them after to supply our wants,
  For we will make for Ireland presently.
   
  Enter Bushy.
   
  Bushy, what news?
  BUSHY
  Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,                                       55
  Suddenly taken, and hath sent posthaste
  To entreat your Majesty to visit him.
  KING RICHARD  Where lies he?
  BUSHY  At Ely House.
  KING RICHARD
  Now put it, God, in the physician’s mind                                             60
  To help him to his grave immediately!
  The lining of his coffers shall make coats
  To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
  Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him.
  Pray God we may make haste and come too late.                               65
  ALL  Amen!
  They exit.